The curl of crashing whitewater
tumbling and breaking onto a shoreline was nowhere to be recognized through the
soaring survey of his gawking gaze gainfully panning over the petrified landscape. Nor even faintly audible or listened, a
rhythmic, cavernous rumble or sharp, slapping crackle produced of splintering
surf or collapsing wave set. So it
seemed, that two time zones and thousands of westward miles away rather, while perched
atop the rust-colored and geologically-youngest stratum of Navajo Sandstone
capping the three-hundred-million-year-old strata of the Colorado Plateau, inching
a pair of desert-dusted trail sneakers closest to a vertiginous canyon rim,
where hundreds of feet below spread the serpentine and smooth, sapphire-colored
skin to the second largest man-made reservoir in the country, Striped Bass were
at long last, the last longing thought on his vacationing mind.
How damn surprising, he would later conceive, having learned from one
page chance turned upon in a Department of Wildlife Resources fishing guidebook,
that schooling far below and somewhere between his many-miles-wide vista of
corralling red rock, swam none other than the revered rockfish. That below the
visibly characteristic lines and stark sedimentary layers of strata spanning
laterally above a waterline, longer grew the characteristic strata of stripes
and lateral lines of the linesider below that waterline. That mirrored under a panoramic, bluebird-ceiling
emptied over Powell, so foraged a transplanted tribe of bass in the reticent imitation
of blue below. That at the actual transcontinental
“Crossroads of the West,” in of all places, the Beehive State, before the
freshwater chasm of a hydroelectric-generating segment of the carving Colorado
River, he would unintentionally gravitate nearest to the top inshore saltwater
game fish of his native East Coast, while sightseeing on the West Coast. That within an artificial lake risen from a desiccated
desert, equally as artificial would be the concept of casting plastic, trebled
artificials here for a championed saltwater fish. So however damn convinced, he would imagine, if even by her natural nature as
the watertight queen of the whitewater, as the physiologically anadromous M. saxatilis, that it certainly was dammed-surprising
she could conceivably lurk and fin as closely as the reach of a loaded rod’s
hope aimed and hurled aerially from shore.
Yet it was completely
true. Out there, within a lake’s
shoreline framed of vertically-rising igneous and metamorphic rock risen from
the basement of time, far below the stippled surround of vegetative varieties
of blackbrush and shadscale rooted far below the call of the California Gull
circling above, a shrieking stimulus instinctively alarming any number of prehistoric-looking
lizards looking skyward to scurry for shelter over the terrain’s recognizably
reddish scattered sand, so swims the recognized state fish of Maryland, Rhode
Island, and South Carolina. Out there, below the widening wakes of
passing pontoon boat keels and captaining revelers, listens the celebrated
state saltwater fish of New York, New Jersey, Virginia, and New Hampshire to the muffled drone of outboards slicing open
the film of a reservoir’s still surface above.
Water, that is of the same river running seaward through the breath-taking
Grand Canyon, hundreds, and at serpentine sections, thousands of feet below
rims it carved over millions of flowing years.
The same river that is renowned for its native cutthroat, rainbow, brown,
brook, and lake trout, large and small mouth bass, bluegill, crappie, and
catfish. The species of fish one would immediately
and naturally picture as the prized, prismatic-patterned obsession of a western
fly fisherman’s forward-reaching front cast fallen over freestone.
The same reservoir of a river whose headwater is La Poudre Pass Lake on
the western side of the Continental Divide, 10,174 ft. above sea level in the snow-capped Rockies. Yet here, in arid heat, downstream of white-water rapids and
upstream of neon Las Vegas, is a non-tidal body of water duly credited in surfacing an
angling record rockfish in 1991 weighing 48.7 lbs.
From tip to tail, the freshwater leviathan measured 45 inches in lucky, landlocked-length.
Perhaps the outright irony
of my discovery was simply a short leap of faith away anyway. Across the vista of water, buttressing both
ends of a concrete dam, lay the spirit of a timeless, desert secret. A secret geologically-written for those inclined
to imaginatively interpret from the lining reservoir rock’s striped-strata of iron-y rusty-red colors seeping in plain
sight at Sax’s surrounding
shoreline. Truth be told, the iron-y color to this strange story of piscatorial
coincidence is painted by none other than the master herself – Mother
Nature. Here, Her medium of choice and
identifiably characteristic technique is evidenced in the inherent oxidization
of these rocks specifically-rich in the iron-oxide mineral hematite; the specific
reaction of which hemorrhages all the U.S. Southwest of its red and coppery
colors.
In this land of water-carved canyons, havens
honored by national park names such as Bryce and Zion, of this ancient
topography carved of massive, gravity-defying stone arches and magnificent horseshoe
bends, testaments of eroding-time itself, however rock-solid, sacred, and
still, it nevertheless assures a surf fisherman from New Jersey to readily admit
that if these remarkable rocks couldn’t adopt the viridescent color palette of
a rockfish, they at least offer humble homage in their growth of distinct and
characteristic stripes. And for a
striper fisherman, I find that to be rock-solid enough. How dam
reassuring, that in a state named Utah, Striped Bass swim the depths of drinking
water, in what is more ironically, the fish’s adopted homewater.
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| The geographically southern-most point of the Lake Powell reservoir as seen from the Glen Canyon Dam. This body of water encompasses 1,900 miles of shoreline over Utah and Arizona, with an average measured depth of 132 ft and maximum depth of 583 ft. |
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| Completed in Sept. 1963, The Glen Canyon Dam towers 710 ft. in height and spans 1,560 ft. end-to-end. |
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| The anadromous M. Sax. as seen on page 58 of the fishing guidebook I thumbed while in Utah. |
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| “All there is to thinking,” he said, “is seeing something noticeable which makes you see something you weren't noticing which makes you see something that isn't even visible.” - Norman Maclean. |
